


transference

by deadlybride



Series: fic for fire relief [9]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Oedipal Issues, Pre-Series, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26606410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Diego's basically alone in his life, except for his mother.
Relationships: Diego Hargreeves/Grace Hargreeves
Series: fic for fire relief [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926739
Kudos: 19





	transference

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlulaSpeaks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlulaSpeaks/gifts).



> This fic was written for wildfire relief. Personalized fics are available on request; see [this post on my tumblr](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629171809812643840/fic-for-fire-relief) for more info.

The mansion is always a little cold. Klaus used to say it was because Dad was cold-blooded. Diego used to say it wasn't that, it was just that Dad was a mean, cheap bastard, and he didn't care if anyone else was comfortable. Or healthy. Or happy. There was a reason he spent so much time in the kitchen, when they were kids. The stove was always on, the oven always working. Plus, Mom was there, and that just made—everything better.

She spends less time in the kitchen, now that they've all moved out. Diego comes back to visit, as often as he thinks he can sneak past Dad. Without a family to cook for, Mom spends more time cleaning, arranging, organizing things that don't need organizing. Homemaking, for a home that's empty. Diego watches her, quiet in the background, and watches her piece together a quilt in scraps of silk he recognizes from her own wardrobe of clothes—pink and deep blue and somber staid black—and she sews contentedly, working together the little heptagons, humming some song he doesn't know except in the sweet rich tone of her voice. He steps forward finally when she finishes the last stitch, and smiles contentedly down at the pattern even though no one is around to see that she's done so, and she looks up in mildest surprise and then her lips curve, painted deep red, warm as sunlight. "Diego," she says, with real pleasure. "I'm so happy to see you."

"I'm happy to see you, too, Mom," he says, and sits beside her.

She doesn't comment on his uniform of black-on-black, doesn't comment on the knives still slung around his chest. She holds his hand in one of hers and touches his temple with soft, perfectly-manicured fingers, and tilts her head, looking into his eyes. "You look tired, sweetheart," she says, and he is. She thumbs the cut on his cheek, professional, but he knows it doesn't need stitches and apparently she knows it, too, because she doesn't comment. "You should get more sleep."

"Yeah, I probably should," he says, and she smiles at him again in that way she has—understanding, not judging. Wanting to help but not insisting on helping. She drags her fingers through his hair, mussing it up where it's stiff from dried sweat and salt, from not showering for a few days, from old hair gel that hasn't washed out, and her expression doesn't flicker. Her hand cups the back of his head, and he closes his eyes and could sleep, right there. "Mom," he says, wanting—something. To be a kid again. To curl up with his head in her lap, like he used to, and have her sing problems away. He lifts his hand to her wrist and wraps her forearm in a careful grip, and she's warm, soft. Perfectly human except in how she's not. He pulls her hand away, and kisses the smooth knuckles, and she looks at him softly, as she always does, and doesn't object when he stands up and goes away, back out into the night to do his job, wishing—wanting—

He comes back. He always does. Mom makes him dinner, seared scallops and wild rice and broccolini in a sherry-lemon glaze, and hums and washes dishes while he eats it, alone at the table in the kitchen, the only table that ever actually felt like part of the home. When he's done she takes the plate, and washes it too, and he sits there with his head on his folded arms, and feels warm and content even in this cold mausoleum of a house, and when delicate fingers touch the back of his neck he sighs, melts. It's a soft, sure massage. Mom the caretaker, Mom the nurse, Mom who knows—everything. Everything, that could ever make something better for one of her kids. She stands behind him, her silk skirt swishing softly around his back and hips, and her hands are—perfectly firm. Her thumbs drag a solid, furrowing calmness up around his spine, enough to make him groan, and she laughs very softly, behind him. "Oh, silly," she says, always gentle and never mocking. "You're not doing your stretches, are you."

He's not. He's too tired, most of the time, getting back to his shitty boiler room under the gym when dawn's already breaking. Mom had drilled them all, with Pogo, with Dad watching. After strenuous exercise, one must stretch the muscle to ensure that everything was in working order, that one might be ready for tomorrow.

"That's okay," she says, soft. Her hands frame his neck, holding him. Her thumbs rest just under his ears, her fingers curled around his throat. "You know you can always come to me, if you need help."

He opens his eyes, looks at the oven. She's making a pie. Cherry; his favorite. "I know I can, Mom," he says, voice thick, and sits up, and feels the swirl of silk around him as she so-sweetly pets over his neck, and then steps away, on to take care of some other easy, beloved problem.

He thinks that might be his issue. He tries not to think about it most of the time, honestly, but sometimes in the dawnlight when he's trying to catch an hour of sleep, his bruises aching, he can't help it, his brain going over old shit while his body tries to shut down. His mom, she's not—she's not really his mom. She's not human, even. Except for how she is. Except for how she kissed his forehead when she tucked him in at night, and put band-aids on his scrapes, and accepted the stick-figure drawing he'd done of her when he was six with pure happiness, and hugged his head to her soft stomach, saying _I love it, Diego_ , and he knew that it was true, just like he knew that she loved him. She loved him. She loves him. She's the only one, he thinks, in the whole world, who actually does. His siblings are all selfish shitheads; his father is obviously a monster. Pogo was just Dad's right hand man, doing his work when Dad couldn't be bothered. There was only Mom, to care about them, to make anything—bright. There was only the way she'd sat on the edge of his bed, when he'd had a nightmare about some robber or kidnapper or whatever that they'd killed, and held his face, and then let him curl up in her skirts and cry, and he'd felt… everything, for her. He still does.

He breaks his arm. It was a dumb mistake, one he would've been rightly scolded for as a kid. A fall he misjudges, a landing he should've made. It hurts in a world-whitening way and he doesn't think the bone is sticking out but to be honest, he's not looking. He dispatches the bad guys with his left hand, and gathers up his knives, and then he's—shit, he's on the wrong side of town, from home. He really, really wants to go home.

The mansion. It's fucking cold, inside. Dad's car is gone but the lights are still on, because the lights are always on, and he makes his way to the kitchen on half-numb feet only Mom's not there. Of course not, he thinks. Who would she be cooking for?

He finds her on her private balcony, among her paintings. She's sewing. The quilt's nearly done. "Mom," he says, aching, and she looks up and smiles at him in that easy, red-lipped curve, but then her eyes flicker and focus, and her lips part, and she stands, the quilt tumbling from her hand.

"Diego," she says, gentle concern, and he sways, and she—catches him. Her grip is easy but there's iron behind it. He leans into her. Lets go.

He drifts. She works on him, humming that song. There's pain and then there isn't, and then there is again, distant, a low drone at the edge of attention that doesn't compete with Mom's voice, keeping him steady. He wakes and there's a splint on his arm, and stitches, and a bandage she's wrapping around his bare skin. Feels like a while, since someone has touched his bare skin. But then he remembers, oh, that's right. The last person was—Mom. It's always Mom.

He drifts, wakes. He's been laid on his old bed, in his old bedroom. The lamp is on and Mom's sitting at his desk, sewing. Humming. He curls his fingers and they still work. Thank god. "Mom," he says, and her eyes sweep up, hard to see with how she's backlit, but she says, warm, as always: "Diego."

He reaches out his good hand. She stands, and he notices for the first time that she's wearing black, striped with white, and there's blood spattered on the white parts, the silk ruined. He feels bad. Heat rises up behind his eyes. "Don't cry, silly," she says, but he's crying, not hard but—steady, the wet seeping down his cheek into his ear, tickling. She sits beside him on the bed and wipes the tears, smiling at him, and he says, "I love you so much," and she says, quietly, "I know you do, dear. All good boys love their mothers."

Good boys. He closes his eyes, curling on the bed around his hurt arm. Her fingers are light, on his cheek. In his hair. On the back of his neck, holding him in a grounding sweet grip, and he gets hold of her skirt, tries to—he doesn't know. Be strong. Only—only Mom has never needed him to be strong. She's only ever needed him to be himself.

"I love you, Mom," he says, slow, and she traces behind his ear, holds his throat. He swallows, and turns on his back, looking up at her, holding her skirt in his good hand. "I—I need—"

He can't say it. It's too—weird. Too big. She's leaning over him, as steady and calm as she was when he was five, when he was fifteen, and he's twenty-five now and doesn't feel a single day older. Still needing her, as much as he always has. Her smile is soft, unchanging. "I know what you need, sweetheart," she says, soft, and she doesn't move anything but her hands, going to his belt, unbuckling. Unzipping. Her hands are warm against stomach when she brushes it with her knuckles; her grip, when she reaches inside his boxer-briefs, is gentle but sure.

He drags in air. He doesn't want to—to make a sound. He keeps his eyes on Mom's face and spreads his legs on the thin mattress, his legs too long now so his boots hang off the end. Her eyes stay fixed on his, her smile sweet, not budging. Her fingers are soft, dry—he's stiffening up fast, under the steady, sure massage she's giving him, and when he's chubbed up enough, really hard, she switches her grip without a flicker of her expression and starts pumping his dick, steady as a metronome. He's breathing open-mouthed, now. His balls feel tight, clenching up already. God, her hand—it's so warm, and he's leaking bad from how much he wants this and so it's lubed now, too, slick and tight, good enough that his gut's spiraling, heating, his bones feeling liquid. Her other hand rests in her lap, close to where he's wrinkling up her skirt, and he turns his head finally, can't take the steady sweet look anymore, when it's coming this fast, his thighs clenching up, his hips pulsing, starting to fuck up into where she's working him. He yanks at her skirt—his eyes caught, on the soft empty curl of her free hand—and when he comes it's a wreck, a long spurt that hits his chest, messing his stomach and her hand and his shorts, like he hasn't come in a month. Feels like he hasn't come that way his whole life. He pants, his eyes squeezed shut, and he says, insane, "Kiss me," and there isn't a pause before he senses her body leaning, and he turns his head, and she kisses him—on the cheek, soft warm pressure, the faintest impression of her unnecessary breath.

She cleans up his crotch, dabs at his sweater. "Hm, what a mess," she says, gently amused. "We'll have to fix up these stains later, won't we."

"Yes, Mom," he says, and it should be vile but it just—isn't. It's just his mom, taking care of him, like she always does. When he opens his eyes she's smiling at him and there's still—god, there's still come, spilled over her knuckles. He takes a deep breath, lifts up on one elbow. "Mom."

"Now, now," she says, that so-easy scold. "It's time for you to sleep now, sweetheart. You've had a big day. I'll come and check on you in the morning, okay?"

She picks up the quilt and drapes it over him. It's warm, too, the silk soft against his bare hands, his throat. She tucks it in at his shoulders, like he's a kid again, and then leans in and kisses his forehead, and strokes his cheek with her thumb. "Sleep tight, darling," she says, and her skirt swirls when she goes away—crumpled and bloodstained, but still elegant somehow, because it's her. She flicks off the lamp on the desk, and closes his door so an inch of light from the hall seeps through—the only nightlight Dad would ever allow them—and then he listens to the tap of her heels, down the hall, and the distant song as she starts humming again.

His arm hurts. He shouldn't be able to sleep. He closes his eyes, breathing in the quilt. It smells like—cherries, and vanilla, and warm bread. He turns his cheek against the pillow and imagines her hand, curving around his neck, his throat. Pressing down. He sleeps, and dreams of singing.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/630005424270278656/in-support-of-wildfire-relief-alulaspeaks) \-- reblogs help more people see the relief campaign, so it's appreciated if you have a tumblr.
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts you have.


End file.
